


The Thief and Con-Artist

by SAValentine



Series: Hollow Detective/Havoc Sentinel Shorts [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Drama, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Gen, Magic, Mentions of Murder, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24694312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SAValentine/pseuds/SAValentine
Summary: By all accounts, Moira had been raised right. As far as she had had a family, at least. The revelation of her heritage had affected her young, and her life on the streets as a teenager had shaped her into something far different than had been laid out for her when she'd been born. But she soon found it was a place where she thrived.
Series: Hollow Detective/Havoc Sentinel Shorts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785331





	The Thief and Con-Artist

Her hands were still s h a k i n g, desperately clutching the rucksack in a white knuckled grip. Her overlarge jumper [taken from Timothy when she’d ran] hiding her hands from view. She couldn’t be certain she didn’t still have blood on them. The man looked down at her, eyebrow raised. Suspicious. Holding up the ticket through the jumper, she knew her grin was nervous looking.  
  
❝Meeting up with my Cousin in Dublin, I am.❞ She explained. It was a lie, but it made him give her an understanding smile.  
  
❝First time on the ferry?❞ He asked. She nodded her head fervently and he ushered her in, pointing towards one side of the large boat. ❝The best seats are starboard side. That way.❞  
She kept nodding and scurried away, glancing back only ones to make sure he hadn’t kept a closer watch on her. He wasn’t even looking. She made an immediate bee-line to the loo, ducking into one of the stalls and tearing off the jumper, her bag sitting on the dirty floor.  
  
She stared at her hands.  
  
Burnt and red and sore. Blisters still healing.  
  
But she couldn’t see blood. Not even under her nails. [Her shower before leaving had been quick, mostly to get the box of dye into her hair than actually wash anything away, and she still felt dirty.]  
  
There wasn’t anything there, but she could practically feel the blood still on her hands. Could see it as it flowed from the wound and soaked into her sleeves and– The main door to the bathroom opened and she heard a couple people stumble in.  
Sitting on the toilet, she waited, whole body shaking, until they left. She didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to go anywhere.  
  
And she didn’t know how long she’d stayed there, forcing herself to calm down. Deep breaths of air as she stared at the floor. She slipped on Timothy’s jumper eventually, calm enough to leave, scrubbing her hands as if it might assuage the fear and paranoia still eating her from the inside.  
  
She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and stared at empty eyes in the mirror. Wide, green, and cold. She practiced her smile. The ones her lessons had taught her to use. Tight across her face, staring, half-mad, she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes.  
  
❛Smile, child, or else no one’s going to want you.❜ Mrs Avery’s scolding voice bounced around her head.  
The door slammed open and she dropped it, grabbing her rucksack and heading towards the door, only sending a small, polite smile towards the women before she made her way to the emptiest, most out of the way seats she could find.  
  
Despite how hard she tried, sleep never came for her.  
  
Every time she’d try to close her eyes, blood or fire would come roaring up behind her lids. Standing there, knife in hand, staring down at the blossoming pool. The pain from dragging more than she should have been able to still lingered in her arms. The horrible smell of the fire–  
She’d lost any fondness for fire since coming to stay with Mrs. Avery.  
  
The ferry ride was roughly three more hours of unbearable stillness. The urge to keep moving had her pacing to the vending machine and back, as if deciding on which sweets to choose. But she was just desperate to keep moving. Keep herself from thinking. From questioning what she’d done and what she was doing.  
  
Why Ireland, of all places, for example. Did she think the travelers would take her in?  
  
She scoffed at herself, running her hand over her face as she settled down into a seat. She just needed to get away from there. Get away from what she’d done.  
  
From the blood and the burnt body and the wide eyed stares of the other children. She clutched Timothy’s jumper tight around her. Breathed in the scent that lingered. Of him, of the “home” she’d had for the last year.  
She wasn’t a Stainthorpe anymore anyway. She didn’t have a home.  
  
She pushed down the tears that pricked the corners of her eyes and stared out the window. Waiting until she felt the jostle of the ferry docking. She sat there for a moment, watching as people began to filter out.  
  
This was it. There was no turning back. Steeling herself, she stood, rucksack on her shoulder, and made her way off the ferry. [Filching the gloves and hat someone had left behind on her way out, slipping the knit fabric over her burned hands.]  
She had expected Dublin to be more like home. That somehow she’d know where to go, find somewhere safe to stay and lie low right away. That the streets would be easy.  
  
But she was wrong. Nothing was like home. She wandered the roads, keeping her eyes wary of strangers as she moved. She had her balisong knife in her hand, hidden under the sleeve of her jumper, ready for something. She’d cut off the fingers and thumb of the gloves she’d filched, making it easier to do things without people noticing just how bad her hands were.  
  
She’d need to find some new bandages later.  
  
The blisters weren’t pretty. She’d gotten so used to the questions from when the burns were always minor, that she knew how they’d be now. She was lucky it was cold enough that no one questioned it.  
  
She found herself a little cafe to stay for a bit. She knew she’d have to find a new one after a little bit. Keep moving. Keep people from asking questions. She was too young to go undetected.  
  
Buy a tea. Insist she was waiting until her mum got off work, and leave at what seemed an appropriate time. It was when it started to get dark that she began to have issues. One person suggested bringing her to the police station, have them call her parents.  
  
Politely, she declined. Made a point to duck into a building and talk up a woman who vaguely looked like her. Told her that the man who was being helpful had been following her and she was just worried about going home. She offered to call her parents, or to drive her home herself, but she told her it wasn’t far and she’d be fine as soon as the man left.  
  
When the man was gone, she once again left. It soon became too late for her to stay out. She’d have to find somewhere to stay. She needed to make a plan. Something.  
  
She didn’t have much money, and her stomach was beginning to eat away at her. A cup of tea and a biscuit was all she’d had since she’d arrived. She needed more.  
  
One thing she remembered Timothy telling her before, when he’d come back and brought her sweets when Mrs. Avery was punishing her by making her skip dinner, was day’s end bread that bakeries would often have. So she followed her nose, finding a closed bakery with an alley hidden enough from view that she could search for the fabled score.  
  
Shame prickled at the back of her mind as she began digging through the rubbish bin, but the pain in her stomach urged her on. Luckily, it didn’t take long. There were three perfectly good loaves of bread, tied up in one of the trash cans. With only a little bit of other garbage on top of them.  
  
Even better, she found some tarts, broken in half and a little crumbled. She took the small scarf she’d taken with her and wrapped them all before stuffing them into her rucksack.  
She’d eat when she found a place to rest.  
  
Ducking in doorways and alleys, she knew she had to find somewhere secluded. That, unfortunately, meant the “bad” side of town. She knew what that meant. She’d need to avoid being noticed. She’d heard the stories from some of the other girls in the home.  
  
And she clenched her knife tighter in her hands.  
  
She found a little alley before she couldn’t walk anymore. A building, tilted inward to leave a little empty cubby for her to curl up behind, rubbish bins nearly hiding her from view if anyone should walk by.  
It wasn’t ideal. She was used to a decent bed inside a warm home. Even with Mrs Avery’s abuse, she’d had that at least.  
  
Clutching her rucksack to her chest, she found she couldn’t stop shivering. The knit jumper was warm, and covered her small frame easily. But Dublin was wet and cold, and leaning against the stone doorway, huddled and hidden, she just wasn’t warm enough as she pulled out her day’s end bread and began to eat it slowly.  
  
She just didn’t know where else to go. What else to do.  
  
Exhausted, she knew she needed to sleep. Needed to regroup, get some sort of energy back so she could even think, even figure out what she was going to do. She leaned her head against the stone, wanting to be able to see if anyone came upon her.  
  
Heavy lids closed and she felt herself drifting in and out of sleep, fear keeping her from settling into something comfortable. She was woken up once by a cat searching the rubbish bin next to her, knocking off the lid and digging inside for some scraps it seemed to smell. She couldn’t blame the thing.  
  
So she felt herself drifting off again, and was woken again by a crash whose source she couldn’t find. Probably the cat again. Maybe a drunkard walking by and falling before moving back on their way. She didn’t know, but it only served to renew her paranoia, and she clutched her knife tighter as she tried to force herself back to sleep.  
  
Voices, distinct, loud, and irreverent, woke her a third time. And they were coming towards her. She tried to huddle herself down further, hide herself into the spot in the corner and stay unseen by them. But she flipped her knife open and kept it at the ready, hidden under the sleeve of her jumper and eyes darting towards the group of boys as they came into sight.  
  
She began to believe they’d just move past her without notice, too involved in talking with each other than ever looking around. Dressed dumb, with bad hair, taking the piss out of each other without much thought. They had just passed even with her, though, when one of them stopped.  
  
And he turned towards her, and she knew that he saw her. Huddled back in her corner. The others noticed him stopped and called out to him. And she was shaking, praying he didn’t step any closer to her.  
  
But he did, a hand a little bit out, as if trying to coax her like one would a cat.  
  
❝Hey there, kid-❞  
  
❝JogoffIhaveaknife.❞ The worlds tumbled out of her mouth before he could finish, more fear in her voice than she would have liked. She couldn’t help it.  
  
❝Aye! I’m not gonna hurt ya!❞ He said, raising his hands and stopping where he was. It almost looked like there was concern on his face. Reminded her of how Timothy had looked at her when she’d said she was leaving.  
  
❝I don’t know you, leave me alone.❞ Her voice was louder now, a bit stronger. But there was a pleading tone under it: she just wanted to sleep. She didn’t want to worry about a group of boys asking her questions. He frowned and looked towards the group of guys.  
  
❝Hey Anthony, gimme that water.❞ He ordered. And the other boy listened, walking over and handing it over without questioning him. She stared and the boy with the mullet held it out for her. ❝Ere, I can give ya this at least.❞  
  
She lowers her knife a little bit, eyeing him, careful. And he takes a few steps closer, just at the edge of arm reach. It looked new, so she leaned forward to grab it. Like her cache of food, she’d only managed to steal a bottle earlier. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she felt until he offered her some.  
  
She popped off the cap-sealed until then- and drank greedily. The boy smiled a little bit at her at she folded her knife and watched him for a moment. He didn’t seem bad. She looked back down at the bottle and frowned a little, her sadness once again welling up in her.  
  
❝I’m Mairwen.❞ She told him, the fear drained from her voice into simple sad exhausted. Then, after a pause, voice filled with shame in the confession. ❝I can’t go home anymore.❞  
  
The “I don’t have one” was implied. And she was glad she didn’t have to say it. He just nodded, moving closer to her, half-squatting against the wall next to her, just within reach.  
  
❝Seamus.❞ He was being nice to her. It wasn’t that strange of a concept to her, over all. But considering what she’d done? She didn’t deserve it. Especially from a stranger. ❝You can come with us if you’d like?❞  
  
He hadn’t even hesitated before offering it to her. Concern welled in her. She’d heard stories from the others girls at the homes about how older boys were. How not to trust them. Timothy had been an exceptions. But– She looked up at Seamus and his expression was open. Genuine.  
  
❝Promise you won’t hurt me?❞ She asked him. He nodded at the question without pausing to think.  
  
❝O'course not.❞ He held out his hand. Pocketing her knife for the first time since she’d left the house, she reached up and took it, letting him pull her up, giving her a reassuring smile. She tried to smile back. But she was so tired, she wasn’t sure if she managed it.  
  
She didn’t think much as she let him lead her, leaning into his side, trying to keep herself steady. He looped his arm around her shoulder to keep her up. She heard the other boys complain about “the little girl ruining the night” and “we’ll have to go twice as hard tomorrow”. But they quieted down quickly, most of it seeming to be good natured. They slowly filtered away, going on their own ways. Leaving her with Seamus and one other boy, Anthony.  
  
They ended up in a shitty, run down apartment and he sat her down on the couch. ❝Stay here. You need something to eat?❞  
  
He walked off, and she heard him walking around, but sleep was finally taking her, and, kicking off her shoes, she found herself curling up on the worn fabric of the couch, grabbing the only pillow on it. She began to drift away when she felt the heavy warmth of a blanket draped over her up to her shoulders. She tried to mutter a thank you as she drifted off to sleep. She hadn’t expected any help when she’d left the home. And here she was, letting herself sleep on a stranger’s bed, exhaustion blacking out her vision and sending her straight into a heavy sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> { Moira is one of the four potential protagonists in the Hollow Detective/Havoc Sentinel series. Shes actually always been designed as more of a side character, but she's also one of my favourite characters. I've used AUs of her for RP, so that allowed me to develop her in so many fun ways, but she can be hard to make into a protagonist because she's very morally grey. }


End file.
